Recently I arranged to get my hoover serviced. I wish I could say that was a euphemism for something sexy or racy but it’s not. I am genuinely just taking my hoover to be serviced. I was told I could drop it off any time in the evenings and I arranged to do this after 6.30 on a Friday evening. Not only am dropping my hoover off to be serviced on Friday evening if I’m honest I’m pretty happy about doing it. The bloody thing hasn’t been picking up properly for ages, just sucks everything up, stores it in the tube and then deposits it all back out in a pile when it’s switched off. So even if I had a choice about where to go and what I’d be doing this Friday I would still choose to be dropping that bloody hoover off.
And that sentence, right there, sums up being 40 in a nutshell.
Because since I turned 40 I am finding that it isn’t that life is suddenly more full of mundane stuff. I just spend less time avoiding doing it all and more than that, it makes me really bloody happy getting it all done. Another good example of this is the last photo I sent to MrP
Again I wish I had something racy or exciting to show you all but no. It is a ceiling. A ceiling that is no longer developing it’s own strain of anti-biotic. Even worse this is the gif that I sent along with it.
Now I’m fairly sure that gif was never intended to celebrate the achievement of a 40 something finally getting round to scrubbing and painting over some mould on her bathroom ceiling but there you are I was absolutely that happy about it.
I remember a time in my 20’s when I return home from work at 22.00 on a Thursday and get my self ready to go out clubbing within about 30 minutes. A Thursday, on a week night! I cannot fathom it now, having been finally allowed to go home that late at night I would choose to turn round and come back out again. I didn’t even own a warm coat.
I do in the other hand, know how I used to get in from work and out again in 30 minutes. It’s because it was the 00’s and the way to move from a daytime to a nighttime look in the 00’s was to apply a second coat of mascara, put on some lip gloss and straighten your fringe. They were simpler times, make up these days is utterly terrifying and seems to involve an infinite number of layers and applications of primers, concealers, and illuminators and goodness knows what else. Not to mention fake lashes or brows, I’ve lost count of all the catastrophes I’ve had trying to look like a socially acceptable female in recent years,
Here is just one, eyebrow catastrophe’s are a whole other blog all on their own.
Saturday nights in those days, were always club nights, I used to love crawling into bed at 5 or 6am with a cup of tea after being out and having a great night. Sunday’s were for the pub or a roast with friends in our shared house. A house where the kitchen ceiling was literally falling in on us. When the piece of ceiling board finally cracked and fell into the kitchen we just moved the table to another bit of the room, so it didn’t keep getting covered with random bits of plaster and carried on.
Saturday I’m meeting some friends in Oxford and we’ve arrange to meet in the morning. That way we can catch up have a wander about, get lunch and all be back home in time for tea. I used to work in London, near Canary Warf with these same friends about 12 years ago. Most Fridays we’d work late, head straight out to a bar, without eating any tea and I would always end up in this bar in the East End which was full of twats but open till 3am.
The strange thing is whilst I look back on it all fondly I wouldn’t go back to that for anything. Not even the most efficient, low maintenance hoover of all time. I know at the time I enjoyed it, well definitely most of it. But I can’t quite exactly remember what it was that I enjoyed about it all. I remember I spent a lot of the time worrying about, well everything. Long term plans for a start, a home and children seemed utterly unobtainable and resigned to some distant future that I had no idea how I was going to get to. I remember worrying about the things I wore, the way I looked, friendships and who had fallen in or out with who all seemed very important at the time. Mostly though I remember the vague haunting sense that I was always missing out on something, somewhere, all the time. If I was out I should’ve been at home or visiting someone, if I was at home I should be out partying somewhere, there was so much choice it was hard to know what I ought to be doing when or with who.
So nowadays I may get a *tad* excited at the idea of a new tumble dryer (genuinely changed my life). A hoover that works or on occasion a new sponge on the sink. Now I’m in my forties I’m ok with the fact these are my choices. If I’m missing something it’s because I chose to do something else, it might be boring now and then but that’s ok. I’m not worried about what other people are doing or what I think other people think I should be doing (who has time for that?).
Oh and I still love crawling back into bed at 6am with a cup of tea on a Sunday morning after a night of no sleep. So in lots of ways very little has changed, I have just come of age.